


Ancient Elf in Backyard

by pokey_jr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ABH, Christmas, Elvhen Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, Limoncello, POV Second Person, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas pays you a visit at Christmastime and delivers a good helping of holiday cheer. Along the lines of 'modern girl in Thedas' but a bit more convenient. And smut. This is an excuse to write smut. Those interested in wholesome family fun should direct their search elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ancient Elf in Backyard

“Two days before Christmas, everyone! Christmas Eve- eve! Hope we’re all ready for some caroling!” Your mother bustles into the kitchen holding a mass of tinsel, and deposits the bundle on the round linoleum table. On closer inspection, you realize it has white fluffy legs sticking out of it, and it’s squirming. Mom, the driving force behind all holiday celebrations and observances, begins untangling her dog from the shiny stuff. You wonder how much of it the little yappy terror has already swallowed. He pulls stunts like this every year, and you are starting to suspect he does it for attention. In all reality, it could be a cry for help. The seasonal outfits he is forced to wear are simply mortifying.

You sip a glass of orange juice mixed with champagne and watch for the big reveal. Sure, it’s only 9:30 in the morning, but at two days before Christmas, the family has barely put a dent in the champagne stock… you are really doing everyone a service.

When Humphrey is finally free of the tinsel, you can see why he was acting up: Mom has dressed him in a hideous little doggy Christmas sweater. When she stands up and straightens her own sweater, you behold the worst part of it all. Her own sweater that day matches Humphrey’s. It features a Christmas tree, front and center, spangled with LED ornaments and reindeer wearing Santa hats adding other decorations.

Noticing (and misinterpreting) your expression of disgust, she beams and does a little spin.

“Isn’t it cute?!” 

The design on the back is worse. It’s the same tree, but with snowmen shoveling reindeer poop replacing the reindeer.

The only thing to do is to finish the mimosa in front of you. Easy. “Nice, mom.” You try to smile. “You have extras for the rest of us?”

She looks genuinely delighted at the idea. “You know, I don’t yet. But that’s a great thought, sweetie!” She picks up Humphrey, kisses his head, and sets him on the floor. He promptly waddles out of the kitchen, accompanied by the jingling of bells from his sweater. He looks humiliated.

You take this as your cue to exit as well, but not before refreshing your drink. Definitely more champagne than orange juice this time. Just as you close the door, you hear your dad clomping down the stairs. He too is practicing carols, and loudly.

“In the meadow we can build a snowman~!” 

“You’re flat dear!”

You shut the door behind you and step into the garage. It is refreshingly cold and quiet, though you can still hear your dad’s off-key singing. You slip past the rusty gardening tools, behind the cars, and then out into the back yard. The snow from last night has already started to melt, which makes crossing the lawn a very squishy affair.

Mom had really gone all out on the decorations this year. She had tried to drag you outside for a tour of them a couple days ago but when ‘The Bishop’s Wife’ was on TV, it was a get-out-of-jail-free card within a week of December 25th. She had been pretty insistent about showing off her new garden gnomes, though. Past the broad, snow-covered lawn that sloped gently down to the statuary garden, there was Burt’s Mill Pond. The pond didn’t technically belong to the property, but your house was the only one left on the waterfront, and Burt’s Mill was long abandoned. 

You reach what you're pretty sure is the gravel pathway-- hard to tell under snow and slush--and crunch across it, savoring the sound of every frozen step. Now, with the cover of snow, there is nowhere safe to sit in the garden of tchotchkes, provided you don’t want to end up with wet pants. The familiar array of gnomes, cats, and cherubs hasn’t moved since the last time you saw them, though there are a few new faces. Interspersed with the old crowd are a drunk elephant, some cherubs pulling down each others’ loincloths, and an odd sort of gate tucked into a corner formed by a tall, dense hedge. This monolith draws your attention more than any of the kitschy crap, and you step nearer to it. The vaulted arch, the odd border, like a picture frame, and its sheer size make it seem so familiar, you just can’t quite place where you’ve seen it before… sort of like the Mirror of Erised, but less ornamented…

You smile a bit, remembering how young you had been when you had first read those books, and how your best friend had explained the riddle to you before letting you figure it out on your own.

‘I show not your face but your heart’s desire.’ 

You touch the cold stone face of the block and it suddenly clicks. This is a model of a mirror, just not from Harry Potter. Somehow, for some reason, mom had gotten her hands on a ten foot tall stone replica of an Eluvian.

Ridiculous, is your first reaction. The kinds of things she’s suckered into spending money on. Honestly, where did she even find this? Second is to wish desperately that it might actually work. Wouldn’t that be a Christmas miracle. Then you could go visit all the characters you spend ridiculous amounts of time thinking about. Even that stupid egg. Especially that stupid egg. He sure did turn out rotten. You chuckle at your own bad joke and then roll your eyes at yourself for laughing. If only you could see him, sit down with him for tea, you could tell him how awful he’s being, and maybe talk some sense into him. Either that or you might not be able to stop yourself from jumping his bones.  
That was tempting thought, though if Solas actually appeared in front of you that very moment, it was a toss up between taking action or running the opposite direction. A stiff breeze blows in off the water. It bites through the thin material of your sweatpants and jacket. Even your slippers, leather lined with shearling, are no match for the elements, no matter that this is the mildest Christmas in ten years. This time last year the snow had confined everyone to the house for days. Mimosas definitely had something to do with the lack of sartorial forethought.

But it is beautiful out here. Despite the cold, the pond isn’t completely frozen over. Sheets of ice like small continents stretch from stands of reeds at the banks. Trees wait in distant grey to shake off the dust in a few months. A few chilly minutes are worth the serenity and the relief they bring from the perfectly matched green, white and red nightmare that has overtaken the house. Now, if only a certain hunky apostate elf were here...he probably had spells or something to keep you warm. And the possibilities of ‘or something’ were higher on the priority list than seeing someone perform magic. Cuddling by the fire, perhaps supplemented by another, more vigorous activity… for some reason it is difficult to imagine what he would be like as a lover, except for the unusual rhythm of his speech. Would he be loud or silent? Reserved or demanding? What would his face look like when he came? These questions deserved answers by way of thorough empirical testing, and you would have been happy to volunteer as the lead researcher.

After a few minutes you turn back to the house. It looks picturesque, situated at the top of the small hill and surrounded by evergreens. Snow dusts the sloped roof and yellow lights glow in the windows. For a moment you feel bad for resenting all the frivolous decorations. It would be hard to imagine this time of year without them.

“I suppose I should go back,” you say quietly. Your glass is empty, and this, more than the cold, is a pressing reason to return indoors.

You glance once more at the monolith and begin a slow walk back to the house. The eluvian must be a Christmas present for you or your brother. Could be that somehow mom had done some very thorough research on your favorite game and conjured this relic in the backyard.

Almost back to the lawn, enjoying the sound of your footsteps crunching on the gravel and you nearly miss it-- a brief metallic hum from behind you. You whip around just in time to see a figure step-- not stumble--from within the formerly dead surface of what you had thought was a replica eluvian. Your heart feels like it stops; luckily you manage to hold on to your glass since it’s part of mother’s fine crystal collection.

The bizarre visitor makes eye contact with you and you finally realize through the haze of shock who it is. Solas.

His mouth quirks in a brief smile at your expression, which you are sure makes you look simple, but you can’t help it. Not until he speaks, at least. He clasps his hands behind his back and strolls towards you. Out of the two of you, his outfit is better suited for the weather. You recognize it as his get-up from the last DLC. He is swathed in leather and wool and chainmail. A thick, fluffy pelt wrapped over his right shoulder and secured under his belt looks tantalizingly warm and soft. Maybe he would let you touch it...and other things…

NO. This was too weird to just accept. You grasp your empty glass more firmly and try to center yourself, to focus. Whatever was happening here-- some sort of dream or a real life crazy dude in a costume, you are ready to defend yourself, even if it means smashing an expensive glass.

“This is not a dream, I can assure you.” He glances at the glass in your hand, taking in your apprehensive posture. “Though I understand your caution.”

Despite his claim you surreptitiously pinch yourself. It felt real enough.

He smirks. “If this were the Fade, if I were a demon, that would not help you.”

You can’t help but glare at him. Patronizing ass. “Well, what-- how-- why are you here?”

He comes within arm’s length and you find yourself looking up to meet his cold blue eyes. For some reason you’d had the impression that mages, and he as a mage, were fragile and diminutive. Wrong. His shoulders are surprisingly broad, narrow to a slim waist and his legs well-shaped with lithe muscle. He has the physique of a male gymnast and damn your traitorous libido but you wish he would turn around for a second.

“Stranger danger,” you hiss to yourself without thinking.

“What?”

You feel your face heat with embarrassment but the cold has probably already tinged your cheeks and ears red anyway. “N-nothing.”

“I am not a stranger to you,” he states. “But you will require more explanation than that, will you not?”

You nod, pulling your jacket closer around you and suppressing a shiver. 

“And you are cold.” He looks genuinely concerned. “If you will permit me--” he sidesteps you and motions to the house. You hesitate for only a fraction of a second, but the compulsion to be an obliging host takes over. 

“Sure.” You justify the decision after the fact, figuring that, one, your brother is in the house, and two, you know where most of the family guns are stashed. And so you allow him to escort you up the hill. At one point you slip precariously on a hidden patch of ice and he responds reflexively with a steadying hand at your back. You murmur ‘thank you’, the reflex to be polite superseding the instinct to be suspicious. His gesture is comforting and reassuring and just the slightest bit arousing. Would he have caught you in a dramatic swoop involving powerful arms and a masculine scent if you had actually fallen? Part of you wanted to test this but the rational mind won out against experiments driven by sexual curiosity, thank god.

You lead him to the side of the house and through the garage. He looks fascinated by the cars, but touches nothing and makes no comment. That’s a relief. You aren’t sure if you’re up for explaining every facet of modern to life to someone who is--apparently-- an ancient elf from another realm. Pausing at the door to the kitchen you peer through the glass and listen intently to make sure the rest of the family is still asleep, or departed to spread Christmas cheer through uninvited song.

Solas gives you an odd look until he realizes what you are doing. He tilts his head, angling one pointy ear in the direction you’ve been staring. “Only one person,” he says quietly. “Asleep, I believe.”

“My brother,” you respond, opening the door to let the two of you into the kitchen. That meant your parents were out caroling, and had taken Humphrey, who was always a big hit on the caroling circuit. His out-of-tune howls at inappropriate moments were very endearing to some people.

You still aren’t sure if this really is Solas, though if it’s a disguise it’s beyond convincing. It’s perfect. The details on the clothes, the ears, his demeanor and accent and mannerisms… you peek at his face again and it’s off-putting. He doesn’t just look similar, he looks exactly like the character. All he would need to do would be to cast Veilstrike on Humphrey and you would be convinced that it actually was him. You stride into the kitchen and grab the 9mm pistol out of the miscellaneous knick knacks drawer, right next to the one containing the silverware. Solas- or whoever he is- still hasn’t clarified why he’s here, though you are leaning towards believing him. Either way, a bit of backup never hurt. Knowing he is watching with fascination, you quickly count out six rounds, load them, and chamber one. Then it’s time to be a gracious hostess.

“May I get you anything to drink?” You offer, wondering if he will be familiar with what you’re about to list. “We have mimosas, eggnog, limoncello, scotch, wine…”

From his expression you can tell most of these are foreign to him, but he replies courteously, “I would be happy to try whatever you are drinking.”

“Limoncello it is, then.” You shoot him a grin. “If you really like sweets as much as I think you do--” you stop short, realizing what you’ve just admitted. “I-- I mean, I’m only guessing.” You hand him a double shot of the sweet citrus liqueur, cold from the freezer and served in a chilled glass. He raises an eyebrow but accepts it without comment. That expression alone is enough to send a jolt of arousal through your core and you blush as his eyes hold yours in a toast. There is amusement there, and a deeper intensity. You watch as he sips the liqueur and savors its taste. Would he be the same with you? Tentative at first, and slow and deliberate. He seems, or pretends, not to notice your gaze as he sips the drink and studies the very typical middle class, middle America kitchen with great curiosity. You fixate on his mouth, and his lips which are just full enough to be a strong feature on him. Broken down, he should not have been handsome, and perhaps wasn’t, to some people, but standing in the same room, his appeal is magnetic. 

You realize during your observance that this is the real thing. It is, incredibly and miraculously, him, and he is being purposely seductive while taking shots with you in your kitchen. He is leaning against the opposite counter now, with his long legs extended, one crossing the other at the ankles. It isn’t a big kitchen, this house being about a century old. There is barely room for a stove, sink, and dishwasher, let alone counter space and it seems like whoever designed this part of the old house had wanted to make it as difficult as possible for two people to maintain adequate personal space while cooking.

“So.” He tosses back the last of what’s in his glass. “You had questions for me.”

“Really just one or two.” You motion for his tumbler so you can refill it, and this time pour a much more generous measure. “I still don’t-- I can’t believe this is real.” You lean back against the opposite counter, mirroring his position. The pistol is next to the stove, within easy reach. You put down your glass and take it, beginning to remove the rounds. Instinct whispers that you won’t need it, and you dearly hope this is true. You really do hope this isn’t a joke of some kind. You want it to be real.

“I guess the first thing is… tell me who you are.” The pistol is safely away, and you sip your drink again.

“My name is Solas. Does that...comfort you?” He puts the slightest stress on ‘comfort’, spinning it from benign to wildly suggestive.

You’re suddenly flushed, nervousness tempered by a warm desire, which you’re sure he can sense radiating from you. “I’m happy to hear it…” You hesitate to ask the next question; even in your head it sounds kind of stupid. ‘Prove it, through a feat of magic’? He’d probably just laugh at you.

As if sensing your reluctance, he conjures a ball of blue flame. It floats and churns in his palm. He casually drinks again, and you know he’s watching for your reaction.

“Wow,” you breathe. “That’s amazing. I know I must sound like an idiot but...wow.”

“Proof enough?” He closes his hand around the flame and it snuffs out, taking with it the blue light that had suffused the plain white cabinets with an eerie hue.

“Yeah, that’ll do. To be honest I was convinced a few minutes ago, but you know…”

He levels a piercing stare at you. “I am afraid I do not. What am I to know?”

“I...well...I was hoping you would do something more flashy?”

“I see.”

“But it’s not important,” you quickly continue. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, of all places. And how.”

“Ah. The answers to both of these are closely intertwined, and may take longer than a few minutes to elucidate.” He pauses and tilts his head again, listening for something. This gives you the opportunity to admire his jawline and his high sharp cheekbones, and his ears. You want to run your fingers along them and play with the points to see if conventional wisdom about their sensitivity is right.

“Your brother is awake,” he informs you. 

This is confirmed when said younger sibling calls down, “Hey mom! Are there pancakes?!” He always sounds so whiny. You hold up a hand to indicate to Solas ‘do not respond’, as if he had any reason to. Finally, the sound of the second storey bathroom door shutting…

“My room?” You ask Solas in an undertone.

“As you wish.”

The bottle comes with you as you lead an elven mage through your parents’ house. Not just any elven mage, as crazy as it was to have to qualify that moniker. Solas. Solas is following you down the hallway and his padding footsteps make barely enough noise to hear them. Up the flight of stairs to the second floor landing, where you can hear your younger brother taking a shower. Then up the two separate half-flights to the third level, and Solas manages not to make any sound at all on the creaky second step. The conversion of the attic was one excellent modification to the old house. Half the level still functioned as storage, only cleaner and easier to access. The other half was a suite of rooms, and it was all yours,at least for the duration of this holiday. Consisting of a sitting room, a large bedroom and a bathroom with an antique footed tub, your parents didn’t understand why guests always wanted to overstay their welcome.

Solas allows you to still play the host as you usher him first into the sitting room, then close the door behind you. He goes to the leather armchair with his usual saunter, settles into it, and asks, “May I have more?”

“Oh! Of course.” You rush over to refill his glass. “I’m glad you like it.”

He ‘hmm’s as he drinks and the sound makes you bite your lip.

“I have tasted something similar before, from Antiva, but this is much sweeter, and smoother.” His voice seems to have deepened slightly. You swallow and ask about the one from Antiva. Surely an interesting topic, but right now your only goal is to hear the melodic lilt as he speaks. He could have described the aftermath of a bloody battle and you would still be captivated.

“Antivan citron is quite tart, and distinguished by little corkscrews of the lemon zest which are left to ferment in the liquor at a certain stage of the brewing process.” He notices you wrinkle your nose. “I agree, it is a foul concoction, and an acquired taste. Those who claim to find it palatable are usually doing so because it is fashionable. Antivans call it ‘the Native’, which I understand is a joke. On the nose the liqueur is sweet, heavenly, like that fleeting scent of an orange blossom. On the tongue it curdles.”

You step around the coffee table and sit, with as much grace as possible, on the over-stuffed couch. It is a hideous burnt orange that clashes with the spring-green walls, but it is comfy. You fold your legs up and pull a woven blanket over your feet.

“So you’ve tried this Antivan stuff? Is that their joke, that it only tastes good to natives?”

“I have. It was surpassing foul. The joke is more a strike against Antivans themselves than at foreigners. They pride themselves on the beauty of their city, and their culture, and their people, but the corruption-- they wink and nod about it and swallow it anyway.” He falls silent for a moment, then suddenly stands. “This armor is bulky, and unnecessary at the moment. You will not mind if I remove it?”

At first you think he’s announcing to you that he’s about to get naked. You stare for a second, and shake your head. Either way, you’re not about to stop him. “I would like to know why you’re here, and how,” you remind him.

He drapes the pelt over the back of the armchair and begins unfastening clasps and buckles. The gauntlets and vambraces come off first, with chainmail gloves after. Then the pauldron and the rest of the fur wrap. These are all laid with care on the floor beside the coffee table. Next are the bandolier and the half length leather cuirass.

“Do you need hangers for any of that?” Did he even know what hangers were? He must, for of course the ancient elves were the originators of all the best inventions. Now he is down to the chainmail shirt. It fits curiously well and is supplemented with panels of hardened leather.

“I have seen you in the Fade,” he says simply. When he meets your eyes his visage is cast with restrained intensity. Then he looks away and it is subsided. You can exhale. He takes off the chainmail shirt, leaving only the familiar loose ribbed linen undershirt.

The depth of what he refrained from saying makes your mouth dry. “What exactly have you seen?” 

“I saw you in the Fade,” he repeats, quieter. His next words are keen, almost desperate for absolution. “I saw you reproduce my likeness in every medium I know. Forgive my curiosity...I thought you might be a spirit. Whether playful or cruel, I was tempted by mischief. I did not expect an artist. I wanted to meet you, though I expected a facade.”

He had seen you in the Fade, huh? Exactly how much had he seen? How much could he have felt? Why was he looking? The answers to these questions could be very embarrassing.

“And I’ve somehow already convinced you that there is no facade?” This comes out more sharply than you had intended. “I mean, I can’t imagine how I would prove that I’m not a demon. Or Robin Goodfellow, for that matter.”

He laughs. “There was no need for you to do so. I am well accustomed to interacting with spirits of all varieties, of all persuasions.” Bending down to unbuckle the greaves and cuisses he continues. “Besides, we are not in the Fade. If I had stepped through that mirror and beheld an abomination it would have been--”

“A disappointment?”

“To say the least.” He shucks his sabatons and boots.

“I suppose you could say my outfit is an abomination,” you giggle.

He raises an eyebrow, and you guess that this is as close as he’ll ever come to rolling his eyes. With all his armor removed, you realize that the only things left are the already-revealed undershirt and what appear to be leggings made of chainmail. They have to be imbued with magic, the way they fit him. They hug his legs from hip to ankle, no sagging except to give room in the crotch. Plenty of room, you observe. He moves to take them off, then notices your eyes go wide. “I do have trousers on underneath.”

“Oh...right.” And there they go. You take in the rather glorious sight Solas presents, standing not three feet away. It takes some effort to dissemble not being disappointed at the presence of trousers. 

He speaks your name and you startle. You meet his eyes, blushing, knowing you’ve been caught. “... Let us suspend this charade.” His voice is a purr, fraught with amusement. “I chose to visit you because I observed-- well, I will spare you the explanation. You know your own work, and I fear expounding on its meritorious details will only make you blush more.”

“That is...true.”

Solas beckons you to him and you go, heart beating more wildly with each step. Finally in front of him, you look up. He seems so much taller up close.

“You are so beautiful.” He is reverent. His gaze sweeps your face and he smiles gently.

“Art imitates life,” you quip.

“Indeed?” He takes your hand, brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss to it. “Are we to perform re-enactments of your greatest hits? If so, I propose we include the one you titled ‘Fen’harel invented doggy-style’.”

“I-- oh. Is that what’s happening? I thought you were here to deliver a cease and desist.”

“No,” he chuckles, taking your other hand as well and adding light kisses while his eyes suggest more. “Like I said, curiosity drew me to you, though I was prepared to be unwelcome. Have I misinterpreted something?”

You shake your head vigorously. “You haven’t! Not at all. I mean… I definitely wanted to make out as soon as you just… appeared. But you know. Not used to elven mages showing up in the back yard every day.” A beat of silence. Half rest before you hit the next note, and you say it before your inhibitions can catch up. 

“Now, could you please lean down so I can kiss you?”

He obliges you, meeting your lips with his. The change is immediate, a heady rush. He cradles your face with his hands, while his fingers tangle in your hair. His fervor is palpable. How quickly he switched from humble apostate to impassioned, demanding… He draws you close to him, bodies flush and you can feel his nascent desire pressing at your lower belly. You taste the sweetness of the limoncello on his tongue. Previous doubts about Solas’ intentions are now fleeting and insignificant. How malicious could he really be, when he’s teasing your lip like that and his thumbs are stroking small patterns on your cheekbones-- like he can’t get enough, like he’s going to demand all of you, in time. 

He catches your lower lip in his teeth briefly. The sensation makes you moan into his mouth. In response he drops a hand to your waist, pressing you more firmly to him. The contours of his muscled chest and flat stomach, even through the thin material of his shirt, are an exhilarating surprise. And yet...there is no time to be shy. You yearn to feel the warmth of his skin and his hand gripping yours...and to hear his breath hitch when you take his cock in your mouth. If only you could transmit that mental image directly to him, the reaction could be spectacular. 

His hand slips further from your waist, tracing the dramatic curve. He hums approval and you can feel--rather than see-- his smile at your lips. You pull back, the kiss is broken, just enough to see how his eyes have gone from bright icy blue to something like a dark sky over water. 

“You have additional requests?” He murmurs. “Should I expect sudden demands regarding position changes?”

You shake your head and grab a rough fistful of his shirt. “All I want out of this is to sate my...curiosity.” The smile you give him is much too coy to be decent. You're expecting a witty riposte from him, with hooded eyes and a smirk. Instead he breathes deeply and manages to look both amused and contented as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face. 

“What?” You demand, eager to progress. 

“I had not expected such a loquacious companion.” His tone has a veneer of decorum over some ravenous appetite. 

Then he leans down (so tall!) and murmurs your name, warm and reassuring at your neck. The unexpected intimacy of the gesture sends a pulse of arousal to your core. Maybe this wasn't lost yet. One of his hands starts playing with your earlobe, stroking the soft skin; the other, at the small of your back, secures you. Where he had whispered your name a moment ago, he begins to feather kisses. At each point of contact with your skin you feel little, tingling sparks, like bubbles in champagne. Was this his magic…?

“Solas…” You breathe. There had been a question in mind, or some rejoinder, but it is forgotten when he sucks lightly at the tender skin. He responds with vigor at the sound of his name, biting at the curve of your neck, and both of his hands find the curve of your ass, and press you against him. The masculinity of his reaction is thrilling-- he kisses like he’s tried a hundred women and he’s finally found what he wants in you. You feel his burgeoning erection hot against your thigh, even through two layers of clothing. Rational thought is starting to seep from your mind, replaced by central intuition. It’s a free country. That means you can grab his ass. 

Naturally, it’s as firm and perfect as it looks, though you re-adjust your hold a couple times just to make sure. He chuckles at the first attempt, then growls and pulls you closer and bites your earlobe. “My only aim is to please you.” No joking now. His breath puffs on your sensitive skin as his hand fists in your hair. More sparks, each one charging the building hum of pleasure in your core.

“Just that?” You press against his crotch to make your meaning clear. He responds much faster than you can anticipate, maneuvering you down to the couch so you're horizontal. He half kneels, with one knee on the cushions between your spread legs. His burgeoning erection is bold, evidently straining against the material of his trousers. It's impossible to look away. You want to reach out and feel it, to hold the thick shaft and suck the head of his cock and hear his reaction. He sees the hunger in your eyes and grabs himself through the fabric. The outline it shows you makes you raise your eyebrows. Several quips about it pass through your mind, one after the other, about size and girth and something moronic about ‘mage’s staff’ but none of them surface into anything vocal, thank god.

Thank Solas, rather. In the time it takes you to ponder, he lowers his mouth to yours again. His tongue plunges in, ever more insistent, claiming you with heat and a certain bravado you wouldn’t have expected from him. He runs his hands over your form again, moaning his appreciation against your lips. One hand finds your ass and he grabs your thigh, his fingers clutching a handful of cloth. He growls at this, his hand grasping for purchase at the same time as he plunders your mouth. When he finally finds the waistband of your sweats, and slips his hand inside, and under, flesh on flesh, he bites your bottom lip hard. You moan.

His fervor overtakes you like a stormfront, a massive cloud darkening overhead all humidity and pressure. A bolt of pleasure strikes at your core. Whatever dream this is, whatever fantasy… it’s melding so well with reality you can barely tell the difference anymore. Fierce and swift and strong, he jerks your hips up in one motion and pulls your clothes away in another. The sound of a seam tearing barely registers compared to his ragged breathing; he kisses at your neck now. His desperation is unexpected, he yearns to be close and you can feel it in every touch.

Everything he does is in tandem, a duality of his mouth and hands. One up one down. He traces your jaw and the line of your cleft at the same time. It makes you writhe. His name comes out in a moan. His hips push to yours, his legs strong between yours, his erection hard and hot against you. You pull at his trousers now, wanting to eliminate that last barrier. He knows what you're doing, what you want, and his response is fast and efficient. You look down in the minimized space between your body and his and see his hand shove his trousers down enough to expose his cock and balls. Together they are swollen, pendulous. Thick and hard. 

You don't know whether you want to fuck him first or take him in your mouth. But it seems like he decides before you can, positioning the head of his erection at your slick entrance. There will be time for more thorough explorations later.

You breathe his name once more, hoping it doesn’t sound too impatient. He is still nuzzling your neck but raises his head when he hears his name. 

He pushes the first inch of his cock into you. You grab the back of his arm. He tenses at first, flexes his triceps and then relaxes, watching you steadily. His movement is slow, but not cautious or languid, only deliberate and precise. And it feels wonderful, as if he wants to sear this meeting into your memory, to ingrain himself in your senses, because of course he won’t be here for long… you put that depressing thought from your mind and bring yourself back to the present, to the man on top of you. To the solidity of his arms and shoulders and chest, and his broad back. His thick shaft fills you, as much as you can take. His initial push reaches its finale; you wince in discomfort when he goes slightly too deep.

He adjusts in response, pulling back somewhat, and murmuring what sounds like ‘abelas’. 

“Elvhen?” You ask quietly. His eyes flick up to yours in surprise, though he smiles at your recognition of it.

“How much do you understand?” His tone is one of innocent curiosity but you suspect mischief. Indeed, he takes the opportunity of one movement-- shifting his hips-- to push slightly deeper into you and reposition his hand from your ass to your clit. His long fingers trace the smooth skin across your thigh, your hip, and finally his thumb finds the center of your desire.

But he just rests there, thumb in place and fingers fanned over your mound, so long they reach the lower part of your stomach. You clench around his cock, which feels massive, wanting him to move, needing him in a way so simple that it eludes thought. He raises an eyebrow at this, and the smile that quirks his mouth is one of knowing delight.

“Just the basic words?” He prompts.

“A few… this isn’t going to be a quiz, is it?” This was not the time for a quiz.

A series of syllables rolls off his tongue at the same time his thumb rubs a circle on your clit. It sounds strangely like Welsh, and the few words you catch don’t help with the context. “Solas, please…” You grind up on him, trying to get him to do it again. Instead he pulls back. You gasp at the sensation, the emptiness leaves you yearning and then he drives into you fiercely and continues with small circles of his hips that just barely hit the sweet spot. 

It teases you, plucking at the same string over and over until the single note of pleasure becomes a whole ringing chord. His hips still move, perfectly controlled. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, but seems to sense your building desperation and takes pity. Thumb back to your clit and rubs in time with his thrusts. You clutch his arm and his shoulder. You’re getting close, you start to match his movements and he leans forward to whisper in your ear.

“I was only saying how much I enjoy fucking your tight hot cunt.” His voice is a silky growl. Your hips lift naturally in response to his rhythm. The measured strokes are done, he now drives an unrelenting beat that matches the tension pulsing within you. You moan, so close, the final ascent to climax a precarious balance between pressure and release. 

Another string of Elvhen flows from his mouth; he doesn't translate, but pants slightly and seems transfixed by the sight of you. One more swipe of his thumb and the pleasure crests into orgasm. It is sweet and sharp and wild-- in the brief heat of it you remember the question about his ears. You sigh with satisfaction as the intensity of it subsides and reach your hand up to languidly stroke his left ear up to its pointed tip

His breath hitches, then he hisses out a single word like a valve about to blow. “ _Fenedhis. _” He pumps into you hard and fast, drawing you along in the tide of his intensity. The strokes are rough, nowhere near the previous control. He speaks a poetic rhythm of Elvhen as he fucks you, urgent and approaching relief. And still he coaxes you to come again, the whole heel of his palm spreading pressure in just the right way against your sensitive quim. This orgasm is faster, and burns out brighter and as you clench around him wet and raw he stiffens and slows.__

__His chest glistens as he draws expansive breaths, stroking deep in the extra slickness he’s created. The crude, wild ravishing beast is restrained again. He pulls away, leaving you empty but content, then stands and tucks his softening erection back in his trousers. You are struck with a sudden fear that he's about to say, “farewell, I must return to my regularly scheduled program of betraying all my friends and being an ass” and walk back through the portal. But he holds out his hand to you._ _

__You take it and he pulls you up into his arms. “So, are you gonna tell me what all that was? Elvhen dirty talk?” Exhaustion is imminent. Hopefully he is as good at cuddling as he is at banging._ _

__“It was,” he confirms, maneuvering the two of you into the bedroom and towards the inviting bed._ _

__“And…? Translation?” You slide under the covers and he follows you._ _

__“Hmm. Later, perhaps. If you are receptive to instruction.”_ _

__You frown and grumble at the evasion. “I will tie you up and fondle your ears.”_ _

__“I welcome new experiences,” he responds with a laugh. Damn him, he is as smooth as his stupid egg head. He lies on his back and you on your side, nuzzled into his shoulder and one leg crooked over his. Just as you're drifting off to sleep, hoping he won't be gone when you wake up, his voice sounds, low and quiet. Its lilt is like a lullaby._ _

__“Earlier, I said to you ‘the next time I have you I will first lick your sweet cunt and when I am gone from here I will dream of you again when honey drips from my tongue.’” He sighs in evident satisfaction, though you think you hear a hint of nostalgia too._ _

__“Teach me,” you mumble, cuddling more insistently into his shoulder. “When I wake up.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this around Christmas last year, but didn't have time to finish it until a couple days ago on a plane ride. (Trying to hide my phone screen from prying eyes while typing things like 'cock' and 'thrust'... ahem) Second person POV is daunting. I was inspired to try my hand at it after re-reading some old Star Wars ABH fanfic. I hope I've done justice to the style, thanks for reading to the end, and hope you enjoyed it.


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